Jul 15, 2009
For Shame
I'm embarrassed to see people--like twin hens, Lindsey Graham and Jeff Sessions--being racist/sexist and small in/about/over Judge Sotomayor. And honestly, it's not so surprising that the Times is one of the most irritating offenders: "Her speeches, endlessly dissected in the weeks since President Obama nominated her to the Supreme Court, reveal a fiery Latino pride." Oh G-d.
Jul 14, 2009
Of Course
Of course. One of the basest people I've ever been around. Is it sick to say good riddance? Sure, but whatever.
What About Style?--Bastille Day
Jul 13, 2009
For Shame
A year before her death, the urban activist Jane Jacobs, then 88, wrote a remarkably prescient letter urging Mayor Bloomberg to scuttle his plans for the Williamsburg waterfront. “Even the presumed beneficiaries of this misuse of governmental powers, the developers and financiers of luxury towers, may not benefit,” she wrote. “Misused environments are not good long-term economic bets.” Four years later, Jacobs’s prophecy has been realized...
--This excerpt from New York's recent piece on the disastrous development muck-ups in North Williamsburg is the last bit of proof needed in a case against Mike Bloomberg. The man who pays no heed to Jane Jacobs is not the man I want mayoring New York City!
--This excerpt from New York's recent piece on the disastrous development muck-ups in North Williamsburg is the last bit of proof needed in a case against Mike Bloomberg. The man who pays no heed to Jane Jacobs is not the man I want mayoring New York City!
I ASKED JESUS IF HE LOVED ME, AND HE SPREAD OUT HIS ARMS AND DIED.
I found that phrase printed on a standard Avery label in a bathroom stall at Memphis International Airport last summer while I was....the point is this: When did y'all start hearing about Ed Hardy? Maybe Christian Audigier's bolts of fabrique were right there all along, displayed at Flying A beside the Von Dutch bowling bags (hotness), and I didn't take note....?
Jul 10, 2009
Verses
Randy: That techno-rock you guys listen to is gutless.
Julie Richman: Do you think she really does all the stuff she says?
Stacey: I mean, who could make up 'That stuff tastes like Clorox.'?
Fred Bailey: So, you wanna dance?
Girl: In another life!
Fred Bailey: Yeah, I didn't either. I was just taking a poll.
Randy: Where do you work?
Julie Richman: At my parents' store.
Randy: What do they sell?
Julie Richman: Health foods.
Randy: That's cool.
Julie Richman: Like, it's not cool at all! Like, it's all this stuff that tastes like nothing and it's supposed to be so good for you. Why couldn't they, like, open a Pizza Hut or something?
Julie Richman: I'll start my diet tomorrow.
Stacey: You better watch out, because Randy might like the Hollywood lean look.
Suzi Brent: Yeah, but blimps don't get to go out with Tommy.
Julie Richman: Who?
Stacey: Tommy.
Julie Richman: Who?
Loryn, Stacey, and Suzi: [in unison] TOMMY!
Julie Richman: Fuck him!
[behind the stage curtain at the Valley High junior prom]
Fred Bailey: Ahh! Stacey! Hey, man, check out Stacey!
Randy: I don't wanna see Stacey.
[peeks from behind the curtain in time to see Tommy kiss Julie on the dance floor]
Randy: Ugh! That's it! Man, I've had it with you, Bailey!
Fred Bailey: What? I didn't think her haircut was that bad.
Randy: What do you mean, her haircut? I just want to know what the rest of this grand plan of yours is.
Fred Bailey: No, man, this is it! Simplicity at its finest.
Randy: Simplicity at its finest. Well, at least you got us here. So let's...
Randy and Fred (in unison): ...crush that fly!
Randy: [to Julie after she dumps him] Well fuck you, for sure, like totally!
Tommy: It appears as though you forgot our French fries and a coke, fishhead.
Randy: Oh, well, Peter Piper picked a pepper, I guess I did!
Julie Richman: [to her friends] Man, he's like tripendicular, ya know?
Julie Richman: Like they're staring right at us.
Stacey: Gross! Let's move.
Fred Bailey: Do you believe a girl should pet on the first date?
Girl: Who are you... Bozo the Clown?
Steve Richman: [about Julie] Sarah, do you know how much she looks like you?
Sarah Richman: Do I still look that way?
Steve Richman: Better!
Randy: [shouting over the noise just as the music ends] So, when can I see you again?
Julie Richman: [embarassed] Gee, Randy... why don't you wait until the end of the evening to say these things?
Randy: It's how I feel.
Julie Richman: I'm here with you now.
Randy: [warily surveying party food] What's that?
Suzi Brent: It's like sushi, don't ya know? Like this here is tuna...
[a guest takes a huge bite]
Randy: [looking disgusted] Dig in, Fred.
Fred Bailey: [introducing himself to Julie and Stacey] Hi, I'm Fred. I like tacos and '71 Cabernet. My favorite color is magenta.
Tommy: [about his recent break-up with Julie] Who else is there? No other Val dude can touch me. She must really be freaking out.
Julie Richman: Yeah, but Tommy can be such a dork, ya know? Like he's got the bod, but his brains are bad news.
Suzi Brent: But he is bitchin'. You really are so lucky, Julie.
Julie Richman: I know, but we've been going together so long now. Like I'm beginning to think I'm a piece of furniture or something... like an old chair!
Loryn: Oh, bad news!
Julie Richman: [glancing at Brad] I definitely need something new.
Stacey: Fred?
Fred Bailey: Stacey?
Stacey: God you're so weird go away!
Fred Bailey: My little pickle. My darling.
Stacey: Like this is so embarrassing.
Fred Bailey: Well I think you're cute
Stacey: My God.
Tommy: [while getting his ticket torn by Randy, who is working as an usher and wearing 3D glasses] Bitchin'! Is this in 3D?
Randy: No, but you're face is.
Randy: No one is gonna tell me who I can score with! Now I want this chick, she wants me, so fuck it, we're goin' back.
Julie Richman: Do you think she really does all the stuff she says?
Stacey: I mean, who could make up 'That stuff tastes like Clorox.'?
Fred Bailey: So, you wanna dance?
Girl: In another life!
Fred Bailey: Yeah, I didn't either. I was just taking a poll.
Randy: Where do you work?
Julie Richman: At my parents' store.
Randy: What do they sell?
Julie Richman: Health foods.
Randy: That's cool.
Julie Richman: Like, it's not cool at all! Like, it's all this stuff that tastes like nothing and it's supposed to be so good for you. Why couldn't they, like, open a Pizza Hut or something?
Julie Richman: I'll start my diet tomorrow.
Stacey: You better watch out, because Randy might like the Hollywood lean look.
Suzi Brent: Yeah, but blimps don't get to go out with Tommy.
Julie Richman: Who?
Stacey: Tommy.
Julie Richman: Who?
Loryn, Stacey, and Suzi: [in unison] TOMMY!
Julie Richman: Fuck him!
[behind the stage curtain at the Valley High junior prom]
Fred Bailey: Ahh! Stacey! Hey, man, check out Stacey!
Randy: I don't wanna see Stacey.
[peeks from behind the curtain in time to see Tommy kiss Julie on the dance floor]
Randy: Ugh! That's it! Man, I've had it with you, Bailey!
Fred Bailey: What? I didn't think her haircut was that bad.
Randy: What do you mean, her haircut? I just want to know what the rest of this grand plan of yours is.
Fred Bailey: No, man, this is it! Simplicity at its finest.
Randy: Simplicity at its finest. Well, at least you got us here. So let's...
Randy and Fred (in unison): ...crush that fly!
Randy: [to Julie after she dumps him] Well fuck you, for sure, like totally!
Tommy: It appears as though you forgot our French fries and a coke, fishhead.
Randy: Oh, well, Peter Piper picked a pepper, I guess I did!
Julie Richman: [to her friends] Man, he's like tripendicular, ya know?
Julie Richman: Like they're staring right at us.
Stacey: Gross! Let's move.
Fred Bailey: Do you believe a girl should pet on the first date?
Girl: Who are you... Bozo the Clown?
Steve Richman: [about Julie] Sarah, do you know how much she looks like you?
Sarah Richman: Do I still look that way?
Steve Richman: Better!
Randy: [shouting over the noise just as the music ends] So, when can I see you again?
Julie Richman: [embarassed] Gee, Randy... why don't you wait until the end of the evening to say these things?
Randy: It's how I feel.
Julie Richman: I'm here with you now.
Randy: [warily surveying party food] What's that?
Suzi Brent: It's like sushi, don't ya know? Like this here is tuna...
[a guest takes a huge bite]
Randy: [looking disgusted] Dig in, Fred.
Fred Bailey: [introducing himself to Julie and Stacey] Hi, I'm Fred. I like tacos and '71 Cabernet. My favorite color is magenta.
Tommy: [about his recent break-up with Julie] Who else is there? No other Val dude can touch me. She must really be freaking out.
Julie Richman: Yeah, but Tommy can be such a dork, ya know? Like he's got the bod, but his brains are bad news.
Suzi Brent: But he is bitchin'. You really are so lucky, Julie.
Julie Richman: I know, but we've been going together so long now. Like I'm beginning to think I'm a piece of furniture or something... like an old chair!
Loryn: Oh, bad news!
Julie Richman: [glancing at Brad] I definitely need something new.
Stacey: Fred?
Fred Bailey: Stacey?
Stacey: God you're so weird go away!
Fred Bailey: My little pickle. My darling.
Stacey: Like this is so embarrassing.
Fred Bailey: Well I think you're cute
Stacey: My God.
Tommy: [while getting his ticket torn by Randy, who is working as an usher and wearing 3D glasses] Bitchin'! Is this in 3D?
Randy: No, but you're face is.
Randy: No one is gonna tell me who I can score with! Now I want this chick, she wants me, so fuck it, we're goin' back.
Jul 9, 2009
For Shame
Judy Berman of Salon had this to say about Paris Jackson speaking at her father's memorial:
...even if Paris' words of affection and loss were completely genuine, I can't help but worry that her emotional debut was exploitative. Shouldn't a truly loving family know better than to spotlight the grief of an 11 year old who has just lost a parent?
Really? I find this kind of speculation, and there's been lots of it, to be unspeakably cruel. The girl was standing with her family, who obviously had no intention of her speaking, when she tapped her aunt on the arm and asked to say something about the only parent she's ever had; a parent who the world assumed abused and damaged her.
I'm guessing Berman has never been to the funeral of a parent of young children. Some years ago, my former boyfriend's older sister (a controversial character in her own right, whose parenting skills were also constantly in question) passed away. Her young daughter stood at her service and spoke, and although I can't remember what she said, I do know that for the rest of her life she will be proud of herself for having the courage and maturity to stand for her mother and be an active participant in putting her to rest.
Our culture is taught to pussyfoot around children. Don't say bad words around them, don't show emotion around them, shield them from anything negative and "adult"; but we forget the incredible emotional maturity young people are capable of, for better or worse. Our under-the-age-of-18 peers are people too, with the right to bury and eulogize and celebrate. Perhaps the discomfort here is not about any of this, but about our own guilt. As fragile dolls whisked here and there with silly masks and scarves over their faces, the Jackson children were merely one more link in the "Wacko Jacko" chain. But we are now faced with the reality of three young children who have lost their father, and we can no longer make fun or be cynical. It's hard to feel feelings, and Paris Jackson and her family are now being villianized to make the world feel better about being so damn mean. For shame!
...even if Paris' words of affection and loss were completely genuine, I can't help but worry that her emotional debut was exploitative. Shouldn't a truly loving family know better than to spotlight the grief of an 11 year old who has just lost a parent?
Really? I find this kind of speculation, and there's been lots of it, to be unspeakably cruel. The girl was standing with her family, who obviously had no intention of her speaking, when she tapped her aunt on the arm and asked to say something about the only parent she's ever had; a parent who the world assumed abused and damaged her.
I'm guessing Berman has never been to the funeral of a parent of young children. Some years ago, my former boyfriend's older sister (a controversial character in her own right, whose parenting skills were also constantly in question) passed away. Her young daughter stood at her service and spoke, and although I can't remember what she said, I do know that for the rest of her life she will be proud of herself for having the courage and maturity to stand for her mother and be an active participant in putting her to rest.
Our culture is taught to pussyfoot around children. Don't say bad words around them, don't show emotion around them, shield them from anything negative and "adult"; but we forget the incredible emotional maturity young people are capable of, for better or worse. Our under-the-age-of-18 peers are people too, with the right to bury and eulogize and celebrate. Perhaps the discomfort here is not about any of this, but about our own guilt. As fragile dolls whisked here and there with silly masks and scarves over their faces, the Jackson children were merely one more link in the "Wacko Jacko" chain. But we are now faced with the reality of three young children who have lost their father, and we can no longer make fun or be cynical. It's hard to feel feelings, and Paris Jackson and her family are now being villianized to make the world feel better about being so damn mean. For shame!
Jul 8, 2009
This is also about Michael Jackson.
Yesterday afternoon we paused at work to watch the Memorial. I walked to the subway and talked to my mother about it. I came home and talked to Pillow about it. I have a few more things to say (with likely repetitions).
The service returned us (at least Pil and I) to some stasis, or, better yet, some plane of hope and action. We felt a pall lift, a release of those awful, vague, much-rambled-about jet crash and bad news fears. Michael Jackson had a difficult and unhappy life. He was not a well person when he died (presumably, by injecting a kind of pharmaceutical speedball). But since his death, at least for some, his human foibles, his long-documented madness and aloneness and otherness, have been eclipsed by one great conversation about the things he made, about art, American art, the connective triumph of pop, many of the great themes of our 20th century gone by. There is a tremendous mystical power in the release of a hit record, a record that becomes an elastic tissue linking millions of strangers and towns and eras, reminding us of all of the good universals and commonalities, ancient ecstasies.
In the 1994 Diane Sawyer interview with Michael and his then new bride, Lisa Marie Presley, MJ called a swathe of tabloid rumors about his health and eccentricities, "folklore." It's a sweet and brilliant moment. Michael was mythic; what was written about him was not gossip, but "folklore."
As I watched the Memorial, as I thought about the many others watching, I felt overwhelmed with joy at the scale of this ceremony meant to send up an American artist. Through our staff's lifetimes (and surely before), this counrty's military brutishness and bald capitalism have been unpopular, but our creative output has been definitive, vital, revolutionary, beloved. Of this, we should be very proud. We are, in a way, lucky to be reminded by this positive Christ-figure, Michael Jackson. Lucky to be reminded of the social power of art and the preciousness of time to the artist, to the appreciator of art and nature.
A friend was just describing to me how difficult her daughter found it to be away from home for three days. I, in turn, recalled that childhood conception of time--the endlessness of a single afternoon, the confusion about geography, the thrill and terror of first travelling. I am now able to remember in units of years, units of length-spent-in-this-particular-place-and-clothing. One day, I'll be able to remember decades, stacks of them. The point is: time does pass--we collect those past hours and days and months in memory--but they do go and go. How wonderful to spend it wisely, looking, loving, making, considering. How wonderful to remember too.
The service returned us (at least Pil and I) to some stasis, or, better yet, some plane of hope and action. We felt a pall lift, a release of those awful, vague, much-rambled-about jet crash and bad news fears. Michael Jackson had a difficult and unhappy life. He was not a well person when he died (presumably, by injecting a kind of pharmaceutical speedball). But since his death, at least for some, his human foibles, his long-documented madness and aloneness and otherness, have been eclipsed by one great conversation about the things he made, about art, American art, the connective triumph of pop, many of the great themes of our 20th century gone by. There is a tremendous mystical power in the release of a hit record, a record that becomes an elastic tissue linking millions of strangers and towns and eras, reminding us of all of the good universals and commonalities, ancient ecstasies.
In the 1994 Diane Sawyer interview with Michael and his then new bride, Lisa Marie Presley, MJ called a swathe of tabloid rumors about his health and eccentricities, "folklore." It's a sweet and brilliant moment. Michael was mythic; what was written about him was not gossip, but "folklore."
As I watched the Memorial, as I thought about the many others watching, I felt overwhelmed with joy at the scale of this ceremony meant to send up an American artist. Through our staff's lifetimes (and surely before), this counrty's military brutishness and bald capitalism have been unpopular, but our creative output has been definitive, vital, revolutionary, beloved. Of this, we should be very proud. We are, in a way, lucky to be reminded by this positive Christ-figure, Michael Jackson. Lucky to be reminded of the social power of art and the preciousness of time to the artist, to the appreciator of art and nature.
A friend was just describing to me how difficult her daughter found it to be away from home for three days. I, in turn, recalled that childhood conception of time--the endlessness of a single afternoon, the confusion about geography, the thrill and terror of first travelling. I am now able to remember in units of years, units of length-spent-in-this-particular-place-and-clothing. One day, I'll be able to remember decades, stacks of them. The point is: time does pass--we collect those past hours and days and months in memory--but they do go and go. How wonderful to spend it wisely, looking, loving, making, considering. How wonderful to remember too.
Nail Color for Wednesday
Essie Canataloupe, a slightly sheer, totally lady-like Fisher's Island coral.
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